


Out of the Cold

by rufeepeach



Series: Contact [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Dog!Rumple, F/M, dog transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-23 01:59:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6101098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufeepeach/pseuds/rufeepeach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One dark and stormy night, Belle hears a lost dog with a broken ankle howling outside the castle door. Struck by sympathy, she lets him inside and tends to his wounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of the Cold

Belle never worried for Rumpelstiltskin.

Why would she? By his own boast, and on the word of every book she’d read about the Dark One, nothing he might encounter out in the world could harm him much less kill him. And even if it could, Belle was equally certain it was ridiculous to worry for the sneering, scaled, sharp-tongued creature that had taken her from her family, locked her in his dungeon, and put him to work cleaning a near-endless castle. It was folly itself to feel concern for his wellbeing, for all a small voice in her mind whispered that everyone, even Rumpelstiltskin, deserved to have _someone_ worry for them.

He’d been gone longer than usual, and the snow outside the castle was beginning to pile up. She would be lying if she said she didn’t sit in her window seat in her new rooms, and stare out at the vast, glittering white landscape, and wonder where he was, what he was doing; whether he was as warm and dry and comfortable as she found herself. A pang of guilt always accompanied these thoughts, for shouldn’t it be her father, her friends, her fiancé, about whose whereabouts she wondered? Her musings persisted nonetheless.

A few more lonely nights passed, and there was no sign of her elusive master. Then, on the seventh night of Rumpelstiltskin’s absence, Belle was startled from her tea by the fire by the howling of a storm picking up outside. The snow was falling in droves, a blizzard, and the wind whipped around the castle, causing the trees to creak and sway. Belle huddled by the fire under her thick blanket, and tried to be interested rather than frightened by the storm, and to allow the castle to make her feel safe. Safe in her gilded cage: priorities were strange creatures.

She couldn’t ignore it any longer, however, when another kind of howling split the air: animal, certainly, and pained, coming from the front door. Belle wondered how she’d even heard it over the din, but she was certainly not about to leave any living creature out in weather like that. Whatever it was it would surely freeze to death, and right on Belle’s doorstep. Heroes, even heroes in their stocking-feet, scared of a storm, did not leave innocents to die in the cold.

Belle pulled on her heavy boots and crept to the front door, opening it just a crack to peer outside. For a moment, she could see nothing but the snow, howling around the castle, whiting out everything in sight.

“Hello?” she shouted, her voice whipped away by the wind. “Is anyone there?”

Only the rush of the storm greeted her, the wind whistling around the castle walls, and the howling of the gale. She was about to close the door again to keep out the chill already seeping into her bones and the snow soaking her dress, when she heard a muffled, pathetic howl once more.

“Hello?” she cried again, and a small movement on the ground caught her eye. A snout, russet and shot through with grey appeared through the snow, followed by the rest of its head. The howling had come, it seemed, from a dog, and he was limping toward her with heart-breaking difficulty. “Oh, sweetheart,” she murmured, her hand rising to her breast in sympathy. “You’re wounded.”

The dog made a soft sound, as if to acknowledge her words, and she smiled at it encouragingly, beckoning, trying to ignore the wind and focus on the animal. “Come on, then,” she said. “Let’s get you inside.”

She opened the door wider, and stood aside, motioning to the dog to come in. “Come on,” she said again, when he hesitated. “You’ll freeze to death out here, and my master is gone for the night. You can sleep by the fire.”

The dog looked up at her, helpless and uncertain, but when Belle gestured once more, a sudden flurry of snow seemed to make up his mind. He pushed himself up the steps, wincing with every moment of pressure on his injured leg, and then with a burst of energy he leapt inside and skittered on the stone floor.

“Careful!” Belle cried as she closed the door behind him. “You’ll hurt yourself!”

The dog was too busy staring around the room with wide, scared eyes. Belle had never hated that ridiculous stuffed polar bear more than when she saw the raw fear on the dog’s face and he started to growl.

“He’s not real,” she soothed, softly, careful not to get too close, remembering old stories of dogs’ bites and foaming diseases. “Shh, it’s all alright. He isn’t real. He can’t hurt you.”

The dog continued to growl and yip at the bear, and Belle thought it best to let him: he’d work out the lack of danger soon enough, and at least the bear, unlike the storm, couldn’t actually kill the poor creature.

She’d feed him, she decided, with a decisive nod. He looked half-starved, poor thing. Belle hoped that if she fetched some meat and warmed milk for him, he might be tempted away from his stuffed foe and into the warmth of the hall, before the roaring fire.

A short scavenge in the kitchens revealed a couple of shallow wooden bowls that didn’t seem valuable or easily damaged, and would do for a dog’s snout. The pantry, as always, contained a quantity of fresh meats apparently supplied and kept good by magic. Belle carved off a bowlful of ham in chunks and slices, and then reached into the cold box for milk, filling the other bowl two-thirds full. Both bowls she set on the heated rocks before the fire, to allow the food to warm a little before she returned them to her new guest. The poor beast was frozen: he’d want warmth above anything.

When she returned to the front foyer, the dog had stopped growling at the bear, but tension was still clear in every muscle of his body, his eyes darting around the room. His eyes settled on her immediately as she entered, suspicion and hope warring within. Then, he smelled the food.

His whole body went rigid, his eyes fixed on the bowls in Belle’s hands, and she smiled with triumph. “You are hungry,” she smiled, in satisfaction. “Good, I can help with that. Come on!”

She called him over, but he stayed sat, eyeing her as if she were now an obstacle. She didn’t stand for that for a second: she sighed and rolled her eyes. “I’m putting the food in the great hall,” she told him, as if he could understand a word she said. “If you want to eat, you can do it there where it’s warm.”

Belle marched off without another word, crossing back to the fire and setting the food and milk down on the hearth. She then fetched an oversized cushion from the kitchen, meant for outdoor sitting, and placed it a little way from the food.

“The food’s here!” she called, as if her voice might tempt him more than the scent of the meat. She then returned to her seat, far enough not to crowd him but close enough to oversee, and settled back in with her book.

A moment later, she heard another howl, plaintive and sad. She sighed, and marked her page with her finger, turning to the noise. He was under the great table now, wide dark eyes pleading, and she could see his foot twisted out from behind him. Something had damaged his left foreleg badly, and she could see the joint was angry and red, twisted, the fur torn away.

He was scared, she thought: scared of being exposed, trapped, at her mercy. Scared of this strange new place, and scared of whatever had damaged his leg. He was missing a piece of his ear, she noticed as she drew a little closer, and he really was so very skinny.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmured again, and nodded to herself. “Alright. You can eat there, if that’s where you feel safe. I’m more than willing to meet you halfway.”

Obligingly, she brought the bowls to him, placing them under the table but out of arms’ reach. The dog watched her warily as she returned to her seat; Belle returned to her book, pretending not to watch.

Satisfied, the dog turned to regard his bowls. A moment later, as if having assessed the situation and found it suitable, he set upon them as if he were starving, ravenous, and Belle heard the odd wet smacking sound as he tore into the meat and splashed the milk in his desperation for nourishment.

“You needed that,” she said to herself. “Poor thing, trapped out in the cold.”

He turned when he heard her voice, his eyes having lost much of their suspicion, but Belle thought nothing of it. She returned in earnest to her reading, and left the dog to his dinner.

She was stunned, a few minutes later, when she heard the sound of sharp nails clacking on the stone floor, then paws on carpet. A moment later, she felt the dog’s wet, cold nose nuzzling her free hand where it hung off the chair, and his warm tongue rasping to lap her fingers. A ‘thank you’, she thought, and she smiled down at him warmly.

“You’re very welcome,” she told him. “You can sleep by the fire, if you wish?” she added, gesturing to the makeshift pallet she’d laid out for him.

For a moment, he stared longingly at the bed. Then, his eyes turned back to hers, and she saw the same longing reflected there.

She was stunned when he made a soft, insistent woofing sound at her, and gestured with his head to the fire. “Oh, no,” she shook her head. “I’m comfy here.”

He only made the sound and motion again, and then, when she remained still, he took a piece of her skirts carefully in his mouth, and tugged. It seemed that he now trusted her, having fed him, and he wished her to be as warm and comfortable as he.

“Alright, alright!” Belle laughed, and brought the cushion of the chair with her to sit cross-legged before the fire. “Better?” she demanded, grinning at her new friend, and the dog, apparently satisfied, settled itself on the pallet.

“Strange little mutt,” she muttered fondly to herself. For that was what he was, as far as she could tell: he was larger than a terrier, but far smaller than a hound or a retriever, although longhaired like the latter. His fur a deep, chestnut brown, streaked with amber and grey. He most closely resembled a sheepdog, she thought, although he was so skinny it was almost hard to tell. His hair was still soaked, all but plastered to his wiry frame, and it was matted and dirty. She’d give him a bath tomorrow, she decided.

“You’ll freeze even with the fire with your hair so damp,” she murmured, and then, deciding that apparently his care was her task this evening, she left him for a moment and returned with the largest cleaning towel the scullery had to offer. “You’re getting dry,” she told him, warmed somehow by how he had tensed with her leaving and relaxed upon her return. He’d missed her, she thought: how desperate was he for safety and comfort that a warm place to sleep and some food made her his protector? “Hold still.”

She rubbed him gently with the towel, covering him, and far from fighting her the dog leaned into it, enjoyed it even, his eyes closing and tail wagging as she gently towelled down his soaked, matted hair. When he was dry, and the towel both soaked through and filthy, she returned it to the scullery, and sat back down on her own cushion at his head.

“What happened here, then?” she asked, gesturing down at his damaged foot. “We’ll have to do something about that tomorrow, won’t we?” she asked. “Until then…” She pulled out the healing salve and bandages she’d taken from the small box in the kitchen, the same as Rumpelstiltskin had used when she’d cut her hand cooking. “This won’t do much, but it might help, if you’ll let me?”

She reached a hand for his paw, and for a moment his eyes were fearful, and he looked as if he may bolt. Then, tentatively, he reached out the paw, and placed it in Belle’s waiting hand. She gasped with surprise, not knowing any animal – wild or domestic – so trusting with an injury. He just looked up at her with pitiful, helpless eyes, and she nodded. “I’m going to help you, okay?”

Belle gently dipped two fingers into the pot of salve, and when she first touched his injury he winced, recoiling. She stopped completely, her hand poised and waiting for his paw, and a moment later, a long moment, he replaced his leg in her hand. “Thank you,” she said, reaching instinctively to scratch the back of his ear in praise. “Good boy,” she murmured, and was surprised when he leaned into her hand.

She spread the salve gently over the wound, and then scritched his ear again, gratified when he leaned his head into her hand once more and wagged his tail. She continued this routine, salve and then petting, two kinds of care, until his injury was properly coated. She then tenderly wrapped it in the bandage, and tied it off near his paw.

“That should help,” she murmured. “Rumpelstiltskin would know better what to do, but I’m afraid for tonight you’re stuck with just me. Now, get some rest,” she petted his head once more, and he lapped her palm in gratitude. Belle’s heart twisted in her chest at how touch-starved he seemed, how desperate for affection. Affection, at least, she could provide.

She shifted back on the cushion, and expected him to settle into sleep. However, before she could replace her book in her lap, she felt his teeth on her skirts again, and this time she didn’t argue with his insistence. The dog shifted forward on his belly until his head was in her lap, huge dark eyes gazing up at her with utter trust, his tale wagging hopefully.

“Fine,” she sighed, leaning back against the chair behind her. “You can stay there for a while.”

She perched her book on her knee, and absently petted his soft fur with hand while the other turned the pages.

It was comfortable here, she thought, warm by the fire, a trusting animal’s head in her lap, her book open on her knee, the storm having settled to a low rustle outside the window. Warm, dry, and safe, and while the dog slept on in her lap, Belle felt her own eyes begin to drift closed. She dreamed of snowdrifts, and slight, scaled men lost in a storm, and of homecomings.

When she awoke, the head in her lap was far heavier than it had been before. Instead of thick fur, her hand rested on soft, springy curls, and she could feel a long, human nose pressed to her knee.

Rumpelstiltskin, her fearsome, terrifying, enigmatic master, slept on peacefully nestled in her lap, and for a moment Belle’s heart stopped with unexpected affection. The bandage she’d administered now wrapped uselessly around his booted ankle, and she wondered whether it had been a new injury that she had tended. 

She wondered why she wasn’t surprised he had been the dog she’d seen to – maybe she had always halfway suspected: his huge dark eyes so familiar, that russet fur shot through with silver. Maybe it was because she was half-asleep, and had dreamed of touching him, of being so close, for weeks. Maybe it was just because his returning as a wounded animal was no more strange than anything else she’d been faced with in his service.

He nestled unconsciously into her hand as she lightly scritched his ear, as she had the night before, and she smiled to herself. He’d never ask for this, never admit he needed it, but Belle was lonely and touch-starved too, and if she didn’t wake him, he wouldn’t know to deny them both this rare moment of communion.

So Belle closed her eyes, and drifted back to sleep with a smile on her lips, feigning ignorance, and hoping he was bright enough to do the same.


End file.
